


Alias

by annhellsing



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: As of Chapter Two the Helmet Comes Off During Sex, Blindfolds, Complicated Relationships, Doggy Style, Established Relationship, F/M, Hesitant Rough Sex, Minor Violence, Mutual Masturbation, Oneshot Series, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre series, Reverse Cowgirl, Shameless Smut, The Helmet Stays on During Sex, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex, handjobs, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/pseuds/annhellsing
Summary: In which the Mandalorian could get used to being needed.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 73
Kudos: 804





	1. Storytelling

**Author's Note:**

> we're in space cowboy hell i guess.

He is desert. He comes to you caked in dirt, in scratched armour and a dented helmet. It might as well be his skull, you touch your fingers to the edge of it where his chin might be. Skin could be underneath it, or nothing.

You hope for nothing, dream about neither and that is why you’re allowed to stay. You say nothing, your eyes are water-soft and staring at yourself in his muddy visor. He knows. Before it’s said, he knows he looks like the wrong side of a fist fight.

“Was it worth it?” you ask.

“It paid enough for fuel,” he replies, half-wishing his vision were more obstructed. Your stare is not deep or dense, something to get lost in. It’s big, vast, you look at him like he’s important to you, even as you tease him. Every time.

“So,” you start. The corner of your lip twitches, you talk low when you’re this close, the cold, dirty metal under your forehead is warming. “I’ll lose you tomorrow?”

It’s only phrased like a question to find out how long you have. Tonight or tomorrow, but he’ll go. Losing him is only a matter of when. Your hand moves from his chin to his cheek, leaving fingerprints in the dust. He nods.

“Tomorrow,” he confirms, “but I won’t be gone long.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” you smile at him, nudging your nose affectionately against metal. Your other hand moves to the unclaimed side of his face. You press your fingers to the dirt and start to push it away. “Can you see me?”

“I can,” he says, his hands finally rise. Leather gloved, they grip your wrists with a fond firmness. He pulls them away from his face.

“You look a sight,” you say.

“I was waiting for you to comment,” he replies.

“Come up with me,” you continue, “you never drink, anyway.”

And you’re right. The two of you exchange one-sided looks and loaded touches in the corner of a dimly-lit tavern, the revelry is enough to block out the rest of the world. Instinctively, he looks to the stairs. They lead to another world, he swears, a quiet one.

“I don’t,” he agrees.

“And you’ve already said you’ll stay the night,” even with your wrists —still held in his grip— firmly at your sides you manage to touch him. You dip your head, kissing where the idea of his mouth exists. Real or not under there, you aren’t one to mince your metaphors. “Spend it with me,”

It says a lot. You want to kiss him. You’d let him kiss you back. You’ve let him hold you, he remembers that. He releases your wrists. You don’t let him go far, your hand curls around his and finally he is given space.

You have dirt on your fingers, the palms of your hands. Your forhead, nose, lips. Wiping at your mouth with your forearm, you turn and breeze through the sea of bodies. All requests and words go ignored, the light at the top of the stairs glows like heaven.

He’s lead to it, you don’t look back at him although he can see you wanting. You tug him up the stairs, off the landing, down the narrow hallway. Whatever awful song’s being sung or instrument played, it can’t touch you up here.

Sometimes I know why you like to be alone, you said with your naked back to him. His flushed face found the inside of his mask unwelcome. Half the thoughts in my head aren’t mine. Too much noise, he guessed. Too much, too soon. Like this, like your hands on him. But he didn’t say that.

He talks. He does. But when he does, he remembers every word you say.

And the path to your room is not a path he walks alone. You’ve coaxed him here every time, with an upsetting lack of force. He wouldn’t let you use any, but his resolve’s weaker than he thought.

“Are you hungry?” you ask and he knows well enough that it’s sincerely meant.

“No,” he replies, his voice is flat.

“Good,” you continue, pushing the curtain aside and closing out that heaven-light. It’s dark where you sleep, but it’s just as easy to pretend it’s quiet.

You fasten each side in place so that nothing will be disturbed. That’s how you like it, what you do with him must go unobserved.

You turn to look at him and it’s without the searing sensation of trying to guess something. He can always tell when eyes are trying to find secrets. Yours only hold affection. Maybe love if he squints. He keeps his eyes open.

He doesn’t go any further into your room, though he knows the way to the bed. He stands there, stupid with unresolved emotion. Why wouldn’t someone want to see love in someone else? He’d rather not think about it.

Maybe because you move to hold his leather-bound hand again. And you don’t know that there’s a patch on the valley between the index finger and thumb where the blaster recoil burned him. You know he kills, sometimes, but the details are fuzzy. He argues plausible deniability.

Because he wants you to kiss him again. You wrap an arm around his waist and lift your hand again. You wipe away dirt, maybe a faint trace of blood. He rubs at your dusty forehead with his thumb. You smile at him, the corners of your big stare crinkling like this is a joke. Or a game.

Or something fun, he realizes. He likes it when you like it.

“I’ll get a cloth and clean you up,” you start, your arm loosens and something like panic surges. He doesn’t lunge, but his hand at your forehead wraps around your shoulders. It’s quick, like something serpentine. He grabs you and keeps you against him.

“Don’t,” he says, “stay,”

“Now you know how I feel,” you tease. Such lively reactions have to be handled with care. He, so soon, grows cold when he bares himself to you.

You kiss him. It’s a real kiss and he never doubts that you know that.

It’s so dark. Maybe the moon’s blown up, or gone out just to give the two of you some privacy. Maybe it’s flickered like a candle. It might come back.

The metal’s warm, now. So’s the glass under your lips. He’s clean enough to love, though your standards are lax. You let him grip you tight and turn you towards the bed.

“You want this?” he asks, he does every time. He waits for your slow sound of approval, he can’t see you nod in the dark. “How?”

You shiver, he doesn’t need to hear that. He feels it, you lean into him and whisper, “How you like it,” and you giggle. The sound of your laugh could rattle around, produce an echo in the lonely space between his ribs.

He exhales, it’s a low sound and the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You turn because you mean it. How he likes it. From behind.

There are hands at your hips. Rough and gentle, they ease you against his chest. His gloves start at your stomach, undoing beaded buttons and opening your vest. He presses his palm against your belly, pulling your shirt underneath from where it’s tucked into the hem of your skirt.

You’re too preoccupied with feeling him even to breathe. The slightest noise might startle him. You fear that, fear scaring his love back into hiding. His hand pushes under your shirt, finding your warm skin. He swears he can feel the heat searing his palm. He cups your breast, squeezing slowly.

And then, you couldn’t swallow a moan. It spills from you, a soft sound of appreciation that works on him like magic. He pushes his hips against your rear, wanting to feel that, too.

Maybe you stay like that for a week. Appreciating each other in barely-broken silence, pausing for hard-earned air and taking of the small amount of warmth you’ve found in cold space.

He palms your chest, you can feel the hard press of the edge of his helmet at your shoulder. He wraps himself firmly around you, you can feel the tent in his trousers against your backside. You turn and kiss his cheek like you’ve already met him. Like there is nothing else to know.

That’s the way he likes it, really. But he starts to undress you because it’s easier to explain.

Your vest slips off your shoulders when he moves away. He tugs your shirt over your head. He pauses to drag his thumb over your nipple, the caress is painfully indulgent. You moan again, but there’s a smile to it. He shivers.

But then his hand moves lower, back over your stomach and to the edge of your skirt. Your arm folds behind you, resting at the back of his head. You’re still kissing where you can reach.

He grunts, untying the cord that keeps your skirt closed at your hip. It unravels easily, he’s had practice. His hand pushes further still, against the front of your crotch. Then, when you’ve parted your legs enough, against the gusset of your underwear.

He thought you moaned before.

It’s an arching sound, domed like the sky. It bubbles, it could turn his skin to ash and he wants to hear it again. Destroy him. Make him rubble.

“That’s good,” you mumble, you widen your stance just a bit.

“You like it?” he asks, chasing the happy cross between a sigh and a yes that follows.

He pets the insides of your thighs, drags two, rough fingers over where it feels nice. You’ve reminded him that sex can be a recollection. He knew how to touch you when you found him.

“More,” you tell him, “yes,” you give him.

You give him more than that. Free rein over your body, handed to a fellow traveller. This is a gift, this kind of love. It will never leave him. It’s comfort.

He drags your underwear down to your thighs. You wriggle against him when you take them off. And then, you catch his hand again. You pull gently on the tips of his glove, tugging them from his hands.

“Because I want your fingers inside me,” you clarify. He gives no complaint. You can have a hand. It returns to where it’s needed, stroking and thumbing and palming at you while your knees turn to water.

He doesn’t put his hand to your back, push you onto all fours on the bed until you’re wetter than water. He still doesn’t know how that’s possible. But it is. You slump over, picking up your knees and crawling over the quilt until you’re comfortable.

Hands, knees, how he likes it. He grips your hips, the skin of his bared palm burns like the hot sun. It’s good to have it free, it makes opening his fly a little easier. It makes the sensation of skin on skin sweeter when he reaches forward to give your breast another squeeze.

He hears your breath hitch.

“You want me to say it?” you ask, there’s a smile in your voice.

“Yes,” he says. Even through his helmet, he sounds rough. Rougher, choking on desire. You listen to him clear his throat.

“I want this,” you start.

“What?” he asks. You scoff. You were getting there.

“You,” you say, “fucking me,”

He hums, he can’t catch it before it’s out there. His hands follow the curve of your back to your hips. You push your knees open, lowering your front to the bed. You turn your head, but he knows you can’t see him like this.

“Don’t drag your feet,” you continue. His gloved hand leaves your hip. It’s a purposeful choice.

He feels the front of his trousers, the growing tent before reaching into his unzipped fly. He’s hard, twitching in his palm. He pushes his knees against the edge of the bed, tugging your hip back until you’re close enough.

Close enough to feel the hot, slick head of him press against you. His gloved hand covers one side of your rear, pulling you back as he moves forward. But the other, the one that’s only skin moves between your legs.

You make a sound like music. He moves into you and traces lazy circles over your clit. Your breathing comes shaky, you don’t feel any pain. He’s big, thick. But he fits into you. You moan from somewhere deep in your chest as his hips press flush against the backs of your thighs.

He’s doing good. He reminds himself of that as he rolls his middle finger over a bud of nerves. As he thrusts, shallow. Hot skin on hot skin, making nerves sing like instruments. The helmet muffles his soft sounds, but they catch in your ears.

You can barely call it fucking. He’s not moving, scared to hurt you if he doesn’t go slow. He never gets to go slow, you grant him the mercy of long intimacy. Coupling is allowed to meander. You moan like he’s pushing into you hard. It occurs to him you might like it better this way.

Soft. Tender. He does start to move with a little more body eventually. He takes a handful of your hip and helps you take him a little deeper. If you knew his name, you’d whisper it. So everything else is shouts.

It shatters the quiet in a way he actually likes. Let them roar downstairs. Only you can truly disturb the peace. You’re the only one he’d let do it.

“More,” comes from you like a chorus. It’s greedy. People have been greedy for parts of him. But he’s a whole body behind you, a tangle of nerves in armour shaped like a man. You beg him to move. Push. Take.

You want this, you remind him. Even this you want. Pull, fuck, have. Give, you’re giving yourself. He’s allowed to want it, too. He presses his fingers to your clit and his hips buck, fast and involuntary.

You’re pushed forward, knees catching on the quilt. Your moan is strangled, happy. Finally, finally. More. Yes. I need it.

Need. He’s been a want. Not a need. He snaps his hips again and it sends him reeling this time.

It feels good, he knows why you tell him so. Because it’s worth mentioning, he could tell you that you feel perfect. He follows a rhythm after two, indulgent thrusts. It’s still not hard, you could still beg for more. But you can feel him in you. He puts his palm to your lower back to steady himself.

He goes until he feels you flutter, clench. You bear down around him, a thousand muscles moving as one. You’re tight, so tight then it’s all as it was. But you’re a puddle with bones, staying where you are only so he might finish off.

In his mind, he can picture you slumped over and twitching. Overcome. He can do that. He moves faster because he wants to see it. His chest tightens when he hears you move your hair out of your eyes. You offer one, half-glance over your bear shoulder. You seek a gaze you don’t find.

But you hear him. He’s in you when he finishes. It’s allowed, he’ll exploit that. His hand grips you tight, his middle finger still strokes you in sensitive circles. You hear a noise rise above metal, above restraint.

Your name. He says your name with a rumble in his throat. And then he goes still. He steps back so he can hear you flop down on the bed. You’ll want him to join. He won’t deny you that.

“Was it good for you?” he manages. He doesn’t know why he asks, but he’s short of breath.

“Oh, yes,” you laugh. Now, that’s heaven. Even in the dark.


	2. Two Heads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w e lllllll. DID NOT think this was getting a sequel but here we are!!!!! is this gonna become a one-shot smut series?? ya h probably

He’s no scavenger. But he feels his way, over parts of you like he’s searching for what he needs to live. He needs a lot less than what you give, he’s survived so far. But if he can have you, he’ll take you. Try to repress the sharp idea that it’s stealing. 

It never is, not with the way you sigh. You make up names for him, touching your lips to skin that goes unbared. His pauldrons know the ghostly outline of your warm mouth after a kiss. So does his face. His hemet. That strangely-shaped skull. 

You’re never on his ship. But sometimes. Sometimes he leads you instead of the other way around, a guide from the tavern to the hissing ramp and then inside. Like a psychopomp, but you’re not like a dead soul. You’re too giddy, squeezing his gloved hand and looping your arm around his.

“So, this is home,” you say to the tight ceilings and burnished metal. It’s not quite a hunk of junk, though it could be a cousin.

“It’s familiar,” he agrees to an extent. You let go of him, moving around the sparse hallway. Ahead lies the cockpit, below, storage. And quarters. His bedroom, he wonders if you’ll smile at that.

You keep things. Things clutter your bedside tales, little gifts from childhood that you’ve held on to. He keeps very little, in his experience. Especially not things. Though sometimes people, because he’s kept you. But would you smile at the nothing? Would you accept it.

He considers it might be stupid not to trust you, it’s the first time he’s thought that about any one.

“I like it,” you say, “it’s like a house with engines. It’s comfortable.”

For him, maybe. Not for the people he hunts. He finds himself making a sound, a wheezy laugh obscured by dark glass.

You return to him, taking up his hand again and moving backward towards the cockpit. The port glows from outside, lit up by lanterns. Suffocated by night. It’s at its most bearable as you inspect knobs and gears and switches.

“When did you learn how to fly?” you ask.

“After,” he says. You know what it came after. You nod. “I was taught by my sponsor, it’s something of a necessary skill.”

“I wish that was universal,” you reply, “I have no idea how to get out of here, couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“It’s good you don’t want to leave,” he says. It’s nearly knee-jerk and he realizes its implications too late. He can’t take it back. You might think it’s good he knows where to find you. “Everyone should have a home.”

You nod, looking at him like he’s said nothing disagreeable. He feels. He watches you flip an errant switch and nothing happens. Your little smile widens.

“It’s as good a home as any. The company’s always interesting and I never have to wait long for you,” you tell him. He stands near the door of the cockpit, watching you. You drink in the sight of him. You want him to come closer.

He doesn’t know how to respond, isn’t sure he can. Being waited on is too strange a sensation. You’re unravelling. The mysteries of you don’t run as deep as what he hides. But hairline fractures knit themselves together. You’re more whole, now, than before you spoke.

“And it’s dangerous out there,” he continues.

“I’m content with the stories coming to me,” you say, “being told to me. For now, at least.”

With a short sigh, you sit down in the empty chair before the control panel. Pilot’s seat. Best in the house.

He doesn’t want to tell you anything more than stories. Good ones. Exciting ones that make your soft eyes go wide. He doesn’t want to tell you that the world is dangerous, but so is he. You don’t need to be reminded that he’s the war. The enemy, sometimes on both sides.

And he would like not to kill. You’re sitting in his chair, leaning on one elbow. He’d like to love a little bit, with what he’s got. A meagre offering, surely. But you make it rise in him, a lump in the throat.

Or like heat, you smile at him. Oh, yes, there’s heat. 

“Come here, captain,” you extend a hand, holding it out. Palm-up. Come on. He will not come to harm. 

The corrugated metal under his feet creaks. He takes your hand and you stand up, turning sharply and coaxing him to sit where you occupied. It’s familiar. But you aren’t. You’re still new, warm flesh. You nudge your knees against his, bending at the waist and kissing the crown of his helmet.

“What about you?” you ask, “do you want this?”

He can imagine what this is. He lifts his head and nods, just the once. You shift, tucking one of your knees into the space between his outer thigh and the arm of the chair. The weight of you is right. You straddle his lap with no shy glances. No coy restraint. You stare at him, through him.

He puts his hands on your hips, admiring the curve of them. And of your bare leg, showing through the slit up the side of your skirt. You’re tugged forward by the hips. Your arms fold around his neck.

“Always,” he finally replies. There’s a weight to two syllables. All ways. He experiments with his grip, his hands moving down your thighs.

You hum, appreciative and still seeking to warm the metal of his skull with your lips. You move against him. It’s almost subconscious, you want him. He wants back, feels a shift. His desire solidifies, like concrete. Something hard and hardly used.

“You’re so sharp,” you tell him. You lift an elbow, moving it so that it’s not pressed against the rigid line of a pauldron. “Are you comfortable like this?”

“I am,” he replies. But he has to think about it.

“Then I don’t care how sharp you are,” you reply. You’re smiling at him. He puts his arms around your waist, hugging your front to his. You give a giggle, letting yourself be crushed against him.

The seize of panic in him subsides. You don’t want to strip him for your comfort. You want to hold him. You want to be held and had. You want him happy, overcome, struggling to breathe. You want to hear the hitch of his breath caught by a modulator.

You change the subject. The press of your hand between his legs makes him stiffen up. He doesn’t mind directness, especially not when you’ve carved out a spot in his trust. The inside of his chest is the opposite of armoured. He knows you’d like it there.

He’s been fragile. Tossed about. His heart’s been lodged in the wheels of spinning machines. Under the hooves of some mean-looking animal. Just because you’d like it doesn’t mean you can have him.

At least, not like that. Because you palm the front of his trousers and he surrenders no complaint. Only soft groans, distantly spaced. You don’t talk. You’re just looking at him like you know. Like you can see his wide eyes. His bared heart under metal and fibreglass.

You unbutton the panel hiding the zipper just under his chest plate. He allows it. He allows you to explore with your hands, you’d have his skin on yours. He wishes he knew how to follow your compulsion for love.

You’re not sure you’d agree, he reaches for you again though you’re already close enough. He wants more. More of you, of this. When did that happen?

His hand is rough, leather-bound and squeezing your rear as experimentally as your thigh. You shift back a bit. You chase the warmth of him, split between wanting to share some of your own.

You take his cock in your fist, he nudges his hips. He doesn’t want to groan, but he can’t stop it. He can’t bring himself to revel in the smile on your face. Joy dawns faster than shock. His vulnerable moments aren’t so mysterious.

You know how he works, when you have him.

And, thankfully, you don’t tease him out loud. You just give a short, languid stroke. Then another. Another. He exhales loud enough to be heard. You’re still kissing him, pressing yourself to his battered, armoured front. He still looks a sight, broken in places. 

Not the ones that count. You’d say that if he confessed out loud his damage. You kiss him where he can’t feel it, but it’s as deep as if he could. 

He doesn’t have the patience to untie your skirt. He takes a fistful of the fabric and tugs it up in a swift motion. His hands are on your bare rear, touching and kneading. You mirror him. He shivers.

Not much needs to be said. Maybe your heartbeats talk, they sputter together. Loving declarations or empty promises? Neither of you know. But you listen. 

The heavy thumping is strange in his chest.

He dips his hand between your parted thighs. He’s shocked when you catch his wrist and pull it away. Your fist stills and then leaves him, hard. You reach behind you, tugging his other wrist from your waist. 

“Do you mind if I—?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. You search his face for an unreadable expression. He rolls his shoulders.

“Sure.” he replies. 

You know how to take his gloves off. You do it slow, fiddling with a buckle on the inside against the pulse. It’s ridiculous. You take care of him. You touch your teeth to the leather covering his middle finger and tug it gently up, up. Off. You admire his bare palm, tossing his glove over the arm of the chair. 

He has such rough hands. You stare, fascinated. He has little scars on the back of his right, like half-moons. Nail scars, someone held his hand too tight. At least, you hope that. He’s so warm, you turn his hand over and inspect his palm. You don’t know how to read the lines there. The flat expanse between fingers is fit only, to you, for kissing.

You’ve touched him, now. Really touched. You hold his hand to your face and leave the your lips there, too. He shifts. That thunder in his chest pauses, whirs to a halt. And then it turns to rainfall. No. Softer.

You free his other hand, mirroring the kiss there. He can see himself, hours from now, staring at each spot. There will be no mark, but he’ll find one.

“There,” you sigh, “perfect.”

He has no doubt you mean it. 

And he resumes his exploration, feeling for where he knows he’s wanted. You get a little lost. Your hands grip his shoulders while he returns your many favours. His middle finger traces patterns over your clit, dipping forward to press inside you before retracting again. 

Your head lolls forward, eyes closed. But then you snap back up, paying attention. You squeak and drop a hand between your bodies. He grunts when you take him in your fist again.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your smile is nervous. He eases a finger inside you.

“You’re forgiven,” he replies.

You prepare each other. That’s one way of thinking about it. He considers staying like this. He pushes another finger inside you and appreciates the smile on your face. But you grow impatient. You have plans. 

“I want—” you start. You cut yourself off to enjoy the sensation of telling him what you want. Him, a bounty hunter. Him, the most dangerous.

“What?” he asks, still sounding deep-voiced. You want, he’ll give.

“I want to ride you,” you say it so easily. But his eyes widen and nobody knows it. You use his shoulder again to steady yourself, adjusting your position until you’re facing away from him. You sit with your back to his chest. On your knees, your knees tucked against his outer thighs again.

He watches, transfixed. He considers you turn your back for his benefit. It makes something shift in his chest, independent of heartbeat. His ribs feel tight all of a sudden. 

He puts his hands on your hips again, as they lift. You struggle to line him up just right. He helps, best he can. But mostly he keeps himself from spilling moans into the quiet air. Outside, the night stands still. It hasn’t moved since you held out your hand. 

It’s dim in here, not dark. Just enough light to love by. You sink down onto his cock. He covertly grabs the armrest. He bites his lip.

“Wait,” he starts, you stop dead, “can you promise me something?”

“Yeah, anything,” you reply. You begin to glance over your shoulder. 

“Stop,” he says, “hatever you do, don’t turn around.”

Your breath hitches. You look away, firmly shutting your eyes for good measure. 

“Are you sure?” you almost sound panicked.

“No,” he replies, “just— don’t look,” he makes no sound when his helmet comes off. but its set down with a thunk on the control panel.

His head feels crowded, most days. Standing room only. Pick who to be and take a number, wait. Too many aliases crowded around, sometimes shoving. They’re all pieces of him, but that doesn’t make them easier to befriend. You’ve never presumed there was a real him to know.

And you’ve never asked to know him by sight. It occurs to you that if you turned around, you might not know him at all. But you know the way his arms fold around you. You know the sound of his breathing.

You feel lips at your shoulderblades. Warm. Rough like the rest of him. They’re so unfamiliar, you haven’t known them all along. You know them now.

The sound you make is strangled. It’s a realization that dawns on him. He kisses your back. So many firsts, one after the other. He grazes his mouth over the bumps of your spine, the curve of your shoulder. His fingers sink into your skin, pushing under your shirt to find warmth.

You curse, sigh, smile. You rock against him, barely moving. You’re too fixated on remembering this. It might not happen again, you can live with that. But you’ll want to visit this, one day.

“Come on,” he says. He lifts his hips rather pointedly. He catches you when you sit forward, shocked by the sudden thrust. You moan, like it’s been held back.

His voice is different. It’s rounder around the edges. Void of static harshness, you want to hear that wrap around a groan. Or your name.

“Sorry,” you say a second time, “you caught me off-guard.”

He hums. He understands but won’t say more. The feel of your skin, soft against his lips, calls. One hand stays looped around your waist, the arm guards dig into your stomach. His other, still-ungloved hand returns to rolling over your clit.

Your eyes are still shut tight. A promise is a promise.


	3. Robber Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there are any inconsistencies / weirdness?? you have my apologies!! but yeee go down on your local bounty hunter

The first step is actually a question, whether or not you own a blindfold. You make do. The second step involves him. Convincing him, more specifically. 

“Where’ve you gone?” you ask, sounding coquettish. He likes that. It’s better than worried, he doesn’t know what to do with worried.

You’re on your back in his bed, lifting yourself up onto an elbow. Your eyes are covered with your favourite sash. You held it out to him with such excitement, such joy. How could he do anything but tie a knot securely at the back of your head.

You’re smiling, distantly. You really don’t know where he’s gone. He’s silent, even the creak of leather doesn’t reveal him. The clattering of metal armour is hushed.

“I’m here,” he replies. Your head snaps to where it comes from. And you’re grinning at him, now. Beaming like heaven above. You’re still a little off when you gesture for him.

“Come,” you tell him, “the bed’s cold.”

“In a minute,” he returns. You know when the helmet’s off, that he allows you to hear. His soft sigh, a deep lungful of air that’s uninterrupted by a modulator. The energy changes in the room. It charges.

But then, there’s more clanking. Buttons are being undone. 

“Wait,” you tell him, “are you taking off your armour?” he doesn’t get the chance to respond with a yes or a no. You make the jump to excitement. It gives his sharp, sudden feeling of inadequacy whiplash. “Let me help,”

“You can’t see,” he reminds you. There’s amusement somewhere in his voice. It draws goosebumps to the surface of your skin. 

“No, I can’t,” you agree, for his comfort, “but I can feel well enough. Let me help.”

He doesn’t argue. Mostly because he’s undressed you near-every time you’ve made love. Sometimes your shirts don’t survive his seeking hands. He moves to you, staring vacantly ahead and listening for the sound of him. He sits on the edge of the bed and takes your hands in his.

They’re already warm. Bare. The heat of another body against yours should not be this perfect. But it is. You could dream about this. It’s why you pull yourself from his grip. Why you throw your arms around his neck. You can find the rest of him that way. You can kiss him.

He sputters, shocked at the outburst. You kiss him with an apology, feeling warm lips. More skin. He sighs and you feel his arms around your waist. This is love, he realizes. Or its facsimile. He doesn’t know if he can love. It feels presumptuous.

“I should’ve known,” he says when you pull away. His voice is gruff and raw. Like a kneejerk start to a fight. But he doesn’t let it fester. If you didn’t know better, you could feel his smile against your cheek.   
“I couldn’t help it, I’m sorry,” you reply. There’s honey in your voice. Sweet apology.

“Sure,” he grunts. Apology accepted. Your hands go back to being everywhere. He wonders for a moment if you know that. But your movements are too random, too uncertain to imply that you can see him.

“All right, how does this work?” you ask. You find his shoulders. The straps on his cuirass. He covers your hands with his own.

“Like this,” he says. He shows you.

You’re unsure as to how most of it happens. You’re clumsy. It’s because of the blindfold. But you make up for it, stealing kisses like a thief. He’s more surprised than you are. Even when he’s the one nudging his lips against yours. 

“I like your hair,” you tell him. You put your fingers through it. It feels soft. Clean. Like all of him, though he would disagree. As it stands, he doesn’t say anything. Too odd, it’s too odd.

He’s not proud of the sound of a buckle being ripped open. He’s not proud of how he can’t get out of his clothes fast enough. Battered metal hits the floor. He mourns when he turns to kick off his boots.

You make yourself useful. There are patterns on his back. Rope-like scars. Battle maps. You kiss them, too. Like they are lovely as his lips or his hair. Or his eyes. It feels right that he have nice eyes. 

It’s harder to grapple with whether you love than if he does. He’s concerned that the lip service on the back of his neck is not it. Because little else, he’s sure, could feel better. He stays still for a minute, just feeling. He has to take off his trousers. This is better. 

If it’s not love, at least he’s favoured. At least you don’t find the feel of scar tissue ugly. They’re ugly to look at. He knows that. But not too ugly to touch. Or kiss. Or trace. He hushes up moans. Can’t be too needy in one evening. He doesn’t know why. He just can’t.

He just sits there, composed of flesh. And wishful thinking. Wishing the one with the soft body at his back might love. Love him, though that’s stupid. At the very least, he’ll be someone’s. Within the next ten minutes, preferably. 

It’s nice to pretend, while your chest is like a warm blanket against his back. He who kills for money might heal. Under your hands, he might. You kiss his neck. He hisses.

“Is that good?” you ask. You wait to do it again until you know. His shoulders slouch. He relaxes.

“Yes,” he says, “would you—” you don’t make him ask. You kiss him again. The fabric of your sash touches his jaw. 

You don’t tell him to hurry it up. He goes as fast as he needs. And you want to feel all of him, as long as it takes. You don’t know when you’ll get the chance to again. Time stretches thin without him, like a membrane. Or a heart monitor when someone’s died. 

Your work doesn’t satisfy. Cleaning cups and singing songs gets old. But he feels new every time. And every time, there is something new he wants to give. He does, in fact, want to give. It’s just a matter of how much. 

And his trust is littered behind him, shattered. It’s dry bones, old shards of mirror. It’s cracked glass and unfit to touch. But you’ve picked up the pieces that won’t make you bleed. You’ve pressed them together with heat and formed something that can feel. 

“Lie down with me,” you tell him, “let me take care of things.”

He’s tempted. He’s so tempted that he agrees. His trousers are still on and they’ll stay on, even as you give him room. He lies back on the bed, staring up at the jutting metal of the ceiling. You move slow at his side. You feel for one of his hips and use it to guide you. 

You mount him. He watches, unsure of how someone so helpless can manage to be beautiful. It’s not an impulse to hurt you. He doesn’t want to. But he could do it. You’re vulnerable, you accept vulnerability. Even as you take his waist between your knees. Even as you put your palms to his chest. 

More scars. You find more of them. Blaster shots and long, thin knives split his skin. Here and there, you touch them. You don’t apologize for harm you haven’t done. But you bend your back. You kiss like it’s your primary function.

He turns over your promise in his mind. The promise to take care of him. It’s strange, the idea you might actually do that. He shifts underneath you. It makes him hard. 

The edges of him feel like they dissolve. Under the river of your hair, falling around his face. You bend and curl to kiss him. Like a water-snake against the dry rough of his chest. And you force your hips against his. They strike like flint chips. The friction sings until there’s fire. Until he’s stiff against your thigh and his hands squeeze your waist. 

“Lor, are you with me?” you try because he’s silent. He’s not paying attention. His eyes are on your mouth. Your little smirk. Your hands are idly tracing new patterns on his marred skin. 

“I am,” he replies, “you’re just distracting me,”

“What,” you reply, knocking your core against his rather pointedly, “this is enough to distract you?”

“You’d be surprised,” he replies, “come here.”

He makes it clear what he wants. His hands move up your back. Come closer is what he means. You speak his language. You fit your front against his, letting him drag his fingers up your spine. He mirrors patterns, traces circles with the aim of raising goosebumps. 

There’s no experimenting. He knows how to touch you, feel you. Make you turn tense or liquid. Your naked thighs hug his. Does he feel dangerous to you, even now? He wonders that. He wonders why you didn’t listen to him, months ago. Almost a year. He gave you a fair warning. His touch might sting some day. You rolled your eyes.

His kind of hunger makes no sense. It’s only loud when he can’t contain it. He has the logic of something starving, reaching out for who-knows-what. You’ve found he needs touch more than anything else. No food, no water. That’s torture. No love and he dies. And he doesn’t even know it.

But you do, that’s why you leave kisses on his jawline. 

You’re needy, he can tell. You think he might not notice an errant hand pushed between your legs. He does. 

“Are you ready?” he asks. You nod. He smiles before remembering that you can’t see it.

“We’ve been taking our time, haven’t we?” you reply.

“I like it,” he says. He doesn’t say you two have time. There will never be enough of that. 

“I do, too,” you say, “but I like your cock in me just as much.” 

He can’t cut off a strained groan. He can’t lock the embarrassing sound behind his teeth. But he gets to hear you laugh after. Small victories. 

You’re away from him only long enough to shove a hand down the front of his pants. To stroke slow and soft how he likes it. Rough isn’t for him. Unless it is. Unless he’s bending you over the bed and grabbing at whatever can be held. He likes it that way, too. 

But this is nice. You know when to squeeze, how tight to grip. You move. And not to do as you said. In the space between filthy invitations and direct action, you’ve found a new idea. You chase it. You lift your hips and urge his legs apart. He feels weight between them, you fit against his thighs. 

He neatly sidesteps hysteria. Your tongue brushing over the head of his cock is like heat lightning. A soaring arc of fire. A cut of white-hot hell that makes his eyes close shut. His mouth goes dry but yours is warm. Wet and soft. Mouthing kisses over him and he can still hear your laugh in his ears. 

He doesn’t mean to grab your head. To buck against your waiting tongue. But he does. He hears you sputter, jump and then you’re laughing all over again. It’s a game. Just a game. No one loses. 

“I thought you said—” he starts.

“I know. But then I thought something else,” you reply. And then you don’t say much more for a while.

Instead, you fit him in your mouth. You swipe your tongue up the length of him. He pushes your head down without meaning it. You inhale loud, exhale louder. You sputter. Cough. You keep going. 

His thighs stiffen up, tensing with unexpressed pleasure. He makes no sound, nothing. The only noise is the hollow rattle in his chest. An excuse for a heartbeat. But it’s sufficient for you. You put one hand on his stomach, feeling for the long scar. You touch it, touch as much of him as you can. Just because. Because you don’t wonder at all if this is love.

He’s hot against your mouth. The faint taste of salt when you swallow him. As far as you can. You’re only a few inches short of the hilt. Your fist makes up the rest, moving with your head. He lets you, even as he holds your hair. 

He finally gives up the ghost. He moans your name. It sounds different without the modulator, even to his own ears. Right, good. Like this is how it should be said. The right way. It’s like the breaking of a dam, he can’t keep anything back. There’s your name. Swear words. A hesitant, shuddering gasp. You could hear it all forever. 

“Beautiful,” you murmur, between licentious sounds. Low enough for him to ignore.

His eyes open. He looks down at you, still in the dark. For him. You give that up for him. Over and over again and for what? A kiss. Just a kiss. He threads his fingers through your hair.

“You are,” he says. 

You’re going to kill me, he thinks. But that’s not right. That isn’t right at all. No. You’ll save him from death. You know how.


	4. Moral Disorder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i blinked and this was here, whoops!!! anyway time for some ?? angst?? well, more angst, i guess??

You should know about his heart by now. Because he knows. He knows what happened to it. Overnight, it happened overnight. Beating red and raw as meat turned icy and capable as the moon arched across the sky.

Capable of what?

Mission’s over. Money’s his. It was just a small murder. Unintentional. He hears a sing-song voice at the back of his mind. It’s framed by sharp teeth. She said to admit it. He liked it. She laughed. She says he liked it, right behind him. But he doesn’t turn. She isn’t there.

And you’re ahead. He’s made his choice. 

You offer open arms at the sight of him. Stupid. So stupid. He feels metal-hard when you fold around him. The tavern is empty, dawn’s light prods the skyline but it’s dim in here. Plumes of smoke rise from the candle in the alcove behind you.

He feels different. You can tell he’s killed. Foolishly, you nudge your nose against his visor. You give him trouble. Trouble in the heart. He can feel it, hear her. She says more. Cut that thing out. Have it removed. Solve all your problems. 

You feel for his hand at his side. You lift it and kiss where his knuckles hide under leather. 

“Welcome back,” you say. Welcome home, you don’t, “do you need to talk about it?”

“No,” he replies, “it’s over.”

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Nothing stays dead, he’s visited every night. Ghosts and spectres. Zombies made of flesh. Bones on top of bones. His nightmares are necromantic. But they never bring people back how they were.

“How about a drink, then?” you don’t hear who he does. No far-off whispers of a forgotten murderess. No up-close singing. His shoulders slouch, he almost says yes.

“I don’t need a drink,” he replies. There is business in his voice. Orderly lust, it’s almost at odds. How he could want that at a time like this baffles you. But he doesn’t know how else to be close.

“What do you need?” you ask. You think to wonder why he’s come at all but decide against it. He’s not unwelcome, whatever he looks for.

He lunges, pounces on you love. You offered it up, but he still has to to try and kill it. Call it habit, how he grabs you. Like he’s grabbing someone else. There’s fear in your eyes. Just for a moment. They search his dark skull, trying to find what you’ve done wrong.

He falters. Suddenly, you’re you again. Scared in his arms. His grip loosens. You relax. That doe-expression darts away. Your arms are slung around his neck, holding him carelessly. 

“Trying to startle me?” you ask, sounding blasé. You try to make it seem like you were never scared. Because if he wants to grab and to have, he can. It doesn’t sit right with him. 

“I missed you,” he says.

“You were gone awhile,” you reply. You sound understanding. He bumps his forehead carefully against yours.

“That’s not why,” it’s a promise. You don’t know what to do with it.

“Oh,” you finally decide. It’s said like you’re caught in a dream. You go from fear to smiles in a short space.

Do you know what he did? He wants to ask you as he holds the small of your back. He killed. With his hands, he killed. And now they touch you, made gentle. But their urge, his urge is still to break bone. To plunder. Steal more than hearts. Try lives.

What right has he to anything. You kiss him, over the mask. 

“Lor,” you say, “tell me what you need,”

It’s flirtation. That’s why you’re asking. He won’t talk about why his hands want to shake, so all that’s left is distraction. He, somewhere deep down, loathes what it stands for. He wishes he had the guts to tell you. To brace himself for a hard, sharp pain. But he’s too cowardly. He would hate to see anything but a laugh in your eyes. Even if he’s earned it.

“You,” he replies. His voice has been missed dearly. Your grip around his neck tightens. You walk backward. He follows, still holding on. 

“That can be arranged,” you say, “there’s none but us—”

The dark niche by the door is unoccupied. The same place you kissed him in before leading him up the stairs. He can’t remember what time that was, maybe the third. Or as close to new as the second. But he could have sworn in the moment you knew his body. His wants, even beneath the skin. You definitely know them now.

He doesn’t voice any discomfort. So you guide him into the shadows. He waits for the right moment, until he can see the table. And then, in one motion, he drops his hands. They grip your thighs and lift. He hoists you up, making you shriek. He could go cold. He could snap to a dark place but your shock is to close to delight. 

You bring your palm down onto his back. Not hard. And you’re giggling. 

“You are trying to startle me!” you exclaim, “naughty!”

He doesn’t repeat that you were missed. He shows it to you. You’re set on the table. He coaxes your legs to wrap around his waist. To pull him in. The act is manipulative and you allow it. But he needs it. He can admit to differentiating between his surface wants. This is a deeper need. A survival instinct.

To survive, he’d turn killer again. It is a grim fact of life. 

But he’d also turn thief, stealing every. You give them happily, against his unyielding helmet. You try not to think, when you close your eyes. Because the cold, metallic taste could be blood with very little imagination. 

You summon up the smell of him unmasked. The roughness of his lips. The scrape of his scruff against your cheeks. 

It’s still too bright to yield to your touch completely. Though he seeks comfort in your arms, soft as water. But he can’t have it all. The urge to lift his hands, to find his jaw and push is so strong. It would mean never having to go. But he would never return, either. He would never know the sweet rush of your having missed him. 

A little part of him wonders how much is confusion on your part. Excitement and love hold hands, they can let go. If he did not go, he would never come back. He knows he has been missed, you would never miss him again. 

He’s shameless. His hips push hard against yours. Your skirt is shoved to your hips. There is no preamble. 

“Yes,” you say. Because you want to say it. Yes, a thousand times. Yes.

Nothing’s shed. Not gloves nor armour. Not skin. He leaves you to handle it. You’re still smiling, it only grows when you slip a hand between your thighs. Shoving your fingers beneath the hem of your underclothes, you rub slow circles where it feels best. 

You still have one arm around his neck. You pull yourself close to him though there is no one else to overheard your loving invitations.

“What if,” you start, already breathless, “there were people here?”

He moves slower than you. Draws it out just a little bit, because he can. He’s got a button undone. He’s not proud of the way he glances at your face. Over and over again, just to see how pleased you are. You know your body best.

But he freezes. The lust that coats your voice is making him forget. He ought to remember the screaming. The terror. The smell of blood and blaster burns. But he’s forgetting, selfishly, with you. 

“I wouldn’t stop,” he huffs. He gives in. You don’t know. He won’t tell you. He can’t.

“No?” you ask. More flirtation. 

“No,” he replies, “I need you now,” the hypothetical situation brings heat to him. It rises in his face. You blot out the eyes, drained of life. You fill his head with thoughts. Him. You. A table. Patrons that aren’t looking. They don’t know what he’s doing. 

They don’t hear you. He has a hand over your mouth. He fucks rough. You’ve told him to. He has permission to take you apart. It’s so close to other souls. And yet only yours touch. He steps closer to you. He pushes a hand into his trousers.

Is he healed? He wonders at that. And he stiffens up when his hand wraps around the base of his cock. You’re still playing with yourself. Still smirking in the half-light. 

“Then take me,” you say, “you have me,”

It’s a reminder. He won’t soon forget again. He stands there a minute, all the same, moving his fist. It’s not as nice as when you do it. 

He doesn’t know if you’re ready. That matters to him. But you’ve invited more than once this kind of connection. He hooks his hands under the band of your underwear. There is a ripping sound and then they are no more.

You make a sound of disbelief. But it morphs, arcing into a moan at the end. You might be disappointed later. Not now. Now, you’re doing all you can to tell him what is important; you’re ready. 

You angle yourself a little better. Under you, the table shakes. This is a perilous place to sit, one of his arms loops tight around you. You hold on to him. He clings to you like ivy, unable to admit that.

You feel the head of him nudge against you. His exhale is sharp. He doesn’t know the difference between hunger and greed as he pushes inside you. 

It doesn’t hurt. You don’t arch your back. There is no pain in your face. Or your open eyes. You stare at him, content. 

He rocks into you. You wait for him. You hold him to your chest. You wonder how a man so close to you could be so distant.

He’s still on that planet, the one with the fresh grave. He has to be. You feel a cumbersome helmet rest against his shoulder. He doesn’t make a sound. Neither do you. He doesn’t have to cover your mouth. Two shadows waver on the wall, illuminated by a single candle.

This isn’t right. It’s wanted, even needed. But it isn’t right.

Love for the wrong reasons isn’t love. He thinks that for himself with no interference from the ghosts. They go quiet. Not forever, not even for long. But they do. 

He comes on your thighs. 

You stiffen up, your head lolling back. His grip on you loosens and you brace an arm behind your back. It keeps you steady when he moves away. 

He tucks himself back into his trousers. He’s spent. Wouldn’t mind a bath. But there is something he has to do first. He sees you shift out of the corner of his eye. He turns, bodily. Lifts his hand a fraction.

“Don’t move,” he tells you. You stare in silence.

He snuffs the candle flame out with his thumb and forefinger. There is heat until there’s not. Dark settles, thick. It shrouds him. You remember your promise, you shut your eyes. And to his immortal horror, he trusts that you do. 

You say nothing. There are no questions. No wondering what he has planned. Joking will come later. Now, he’s healing. 

You can’t see him in front of you. But you can feel a presence, one that kneels. You can imagine a helmet rising. It’s set on the floor. You can picture a mouth, though you’ve never seen it. 

All that you love about him is still intact. His warm lips. Rough skin. Scruff. He nudges his nose against your inner thigh. He mirrors your affection. He’s never had another source.

His kisses are languid. He uses no teeth, leaves no marks. He can’t bring himself to cause any more pain. Not today. Not to you. 

Noises come like rain from you. You smile again, soft around the edges. You feel, blindly, reaching forward. Your hand finds the top of his head. His soft hair. You don’t push, don’t pull. You push your fingers through it and mumble encouragement. At long last, your words return.

“We have time,” you say. For once, he doesn’t care if it’s a lie. “That’s it,”

He kisses from thigh to knee. Because he should. Because you should know gentleness. Not just his greed masquerading as neediness. You’re needy, too. He presses his mouth against your legs. He ventures to the tops of your knees. But he doesn’t overstay his welcome.

He returns to where you need. He’s so close. Your underwear is ripped and in the way. He tugs it aside, just enough to press his mouth against you. He kisses there, too. More than once. And then he presses his tongue flat against the hairline fracture. He draws it up. He maps you out as he has with his fingers. But slower, now. It is not the same.

You sigh above him. He has no urge, no pressing want to silence you. If people were here, let them hear. But they are not. You are alone with him and he is making you moan. He’s warm. Searing hot. 

Your mouth says “Oh,” over and over again, while the tip of his tongue does. He has hands on your thighs. His thumbs stroke your skin. Your legs are soft scissors. You nudge one experimentally against the side of his head. He picks you up by the knee and tucks it over his shoulder. You can lean back a little farther. Spread a little wider.

He fills you with his tongue like an angel. 

You can feel him trying his best. He pours apology into you. You forgive with him with all his aliases, sighed to the rooftop. There are so many names for him. It would be dull to pick just one. 

It takes a while to remember you have hips. And they can rock back. He’s in you, you make sure of it. You buck and twist your back. You tilt your smiling mouth up. You can’t look down or the fun ends. And he’s so fun to fuck. 

Your yes comes back. Between his names, you tell him yes. Please. There is no room for licentious questions. Where he learned this doesn’t matter. It’s all for you. Your hand in his hair doesn’t turn mean. Not even when it feels good. You brush his hair back from his forehead. You do not shut up.

He’ll hear your echo in his head for a long time.


	5. Interlunar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to the two people who gave me the idea for this chapter in the comments!! gotta love some angst porn!

His anger is uncauterized. It flows, warm as blood. Just as unpleasant. He acts not because he knows the pain in your cheek, but because he couldn’t stop it. He rounds on the imperialist. The sympathizer. The one who ran his mouth too far for you to ignore.

It’s no one’s fault but his that you’re bruised. 

You can almost hear the hiss from him. His spine curls with the hate. He reaches for the blaster at his belt and considers what drawing it would imply. Shooting a man in a back. In your tavern. It would be bad for business. It’s what stays his hand.

And he looks back to you. Through dark glass over his eyes, he looks.

He feels, you can see that. Even with his face covered, he tenses. Coiled like a snake. But your hand on his balled fist tells him everything. Your hate, your incandescent rage is burning too. And chasing after him is not an option.

It isn’t often he has a higher purpose than killing. What comes after is what matters. Returning with a reward, something to show for his absence. The conclave has nothing if they do not have him. But you stare at him with so much dying, misdirected malice. There is insistence. He is needed here. Not for violence, nor reward. The opposite of both.

And he nods, just once. An agreement. He knows deals, trusts them, one is struck with you. If he stays, he will care for you. In spite of everything, all the honour he’s shed, he still has that urge.

It’s precious to you, you’ve told him as much. Not with words but with the soft brush of fingertips over his bare shoulders. Or the feeling of your hot, little teeth worrying the flesh of his neck. 

You care for his humanity, even if you will never know for sure if he is human.

“Stay,” you exhale. The band strikes up again and the violence fades into the memories of your patrons. But not his. He does not move an inch.

“I will,” he says, “does it—”

Of course it hurts. But you give a slight shake of the head. Not here, not now. His rage is dripping dry. With the threat gone, it’s much easier to focus on you. You want only to be close to him.

He shocks himself when he lifts a hand, tilts your chin towards the light so he can see the extent of the damage. All he ever does is touch you gently, this is no different.

“Yes,” you say, though you don’t need to, “but I’ll be fine. Consider him banned.”

He can’t bring himself to point out the flaw in that. He knows best of all that words won’t keep you safe. But he could. He nudges your cheek with a gloved finger, far from where you’ve been hurt. 

“I’m fine, Lor, really,” you continue. You reach up, putting your palm to the back of his hand. “Rowdy patrons are a fact of life. I’ll live.”

He knows that. It’s what keeps him here, looking at you.

“I should get cleaned up,” you say, “I’ve been waiting tables since midday,” and though it’s risky to move suddenly with him in your line of sight, you pull on his arm. You guide him as you did before. 

You take him with you to keep an eye on him. He knows that. Trust has been hard-won. But he would take your hand in the reverse situation. The last thing you want is for him to get hurt. Or worse, to have blood on his hands with no bounty attached. Karga wouldn’t be able to shield him from the consequences of that.

He allows this, though his shoulders are stiff. Though he feels heavier, heavy with hate and anger. He could kill, in this moment. But your hands on his, still soft, implore him to put his feelings to good use.

You need him more. And for whatever reason, you need him. He won’t abandon you. He does his best not to bring his pain to bed. He won’t start now.

He knows your room well. All the knick-knacks and dust kicked up through the windows. You open your dresser but with a decisive sigh, it’s closed.

“Make sure no one can see in,” you tell him. He turns and securely fastens the curtain in place. Because you’ve asked him to. But he lifts his head, turns his visor to you. 

“What,” he starts, but he gets his answer. You’re undoing the tie at the back of your neck. The one that keeps your dress on your shoulders. He doesn’t like the reason why he steps toward you.

“Do you want to?” you ask. You know what you want. Now, so does he.

“There’s blood on your cheek,” he replies.

“You could just say no,” you say. But you give him a smirk. “I’m going for a shower. Wait for me?”

He nods. He followed you, didn’t he? He has time before he has to meet with Karga.  
As you leave, he’s loathe to admit he admires the view. Because there is blood on your cheek and no amount of water will wash away that he let it happen. Or that he let the man who spilled it live. 

He sits at the end of your bed, his boots on the carpet. Your mother made it, if he remembers right. From your clothes when you were little and growing too fast for her to keep track. He focuses on the single line, woven into a circle. He forces himself not to think about the water turning pink with your blood.

You return in a blink. Or fifteen minutes. When he goes dead inside, it’s difficult to tell. The cellar before they found him was the same. Hours or heartbeats, he doesn’t want to think about it long enough to decide. 

You’re still wet, holding a towel around your middle and your dress is nowhere to be seen. It’s just a scratch, what’s left of the mark on your cheek. Should heal in a few days. The bruising will clear up. You shake your head, just once at him.

“I know that look,” you say.

“What look?” he replies.

“I don’t mean literally,” you say, “but I know when you’re all serious. Lost in thought. Enough of that.”

“What should I look at?” he asks.

“Me,” you smile at him. You walk to him, now, and your knees brush against his. It’s your turn to take his chin in your hand. You turn his faceless helmet to yours. “If the sight of me doesn’t anger you, of course.”

“It’s not you,” he says. It’s a promise. “It’s—”

“You couldn’t protect me this time,” you say it like it’s a grim fact of life, “I know. But there’ll be more chances.”

“That’s what makes me angry,” he says. It sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

“It doesn’t for me,” you reply, “I think I wouldn’t still be running a tavern if I couldn’t handle it.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Why? You did everything you could,” you reply, “thank you for not murdering a man where I do business.”

“Wouldn’t’ve been a murder,” he sighs, “something of value would have to be lost.”

You laugh and he doesn’t fight your hand so hard. Seeing your mouth curled in something other than pain is nice. You put your other hand around his neck. But try as you might, You can’t feel anything but cold metal and leather.

“I don’t want to talk about this any more,” you say, “and I don’t want to go back downstairs.”

“Okay,” he says, “what do you want?”

“You,” you say, “still. There’s no blood on my cheek.”

There isn’t. But there is a cut. And he still feels hot shame rising. But not anger, not when he looks at you. He didn’t lie about that.

He puts his hand at the small of your back.

“Fine,” he says, then adds, “yes,”

“You’re good to me,” you smile a little wider, leaning in and pressing your forehead against his. That’s a kiss, to him. He told you as much.

He stands, if only to get a bit of the control back. Submission makes his palms itch, he can’t abide it. And he’s wary of what he’d let you do to him. Even now. Who knows why you want him now. 

You step back, giving him space. Your arms move around his neck. He acts without thinking. In one, swift motion he has his hands on the undersides of your thighs. He lifts you and you squeak. You bury your head in his neck to hide the louder shout of surprise. 

You know better than to ask, stricken, what he’ll do to you. But he’s strong. He holds you up against the wall. You can imagine. 

He’s careful with your back. He does not bruise you worse than you already are. You hands have to make a decision, where to rest. For a brief, soft moment they are on either side of his head.

“Take it off,” he says. His voice is a rumble. 

“No,” you say. Too shocked to ask him to repeat himself. It’s said so quickly, you doubt he’s thought it through. “Stop thinking with your guilt, love,” 

He turns his face away from yours. Angles it down. So he can see where his hand gropes as he tosses the towel you wear aside. Between your legs. Leather on skin. You wrap your arm around his neck with a languidness that suggests trust. The hand palming over the hairline fracture between your legs moves unceremoniously.

“Thanks,” he says after a moment.

“I’ll never want what you won’t give,” you tell him. Your breath fogs up his visor. You leave ghost-lip prints on his cheeks and forehead. “And I’ll never take it off for you. I don’t want you to.”

“Why not?” he asks, though his rough-gloved middle finger roams over your clit all the while. You shiver.

“Because, I already know you,” you reply, “and one soul in all the world shouldn’t ask that of you.”

He pulls his hand away from you. He holds it up, a question in the quirk of his head. You get the idea. You pull on his glove, tear it from him and toss it over with your towel. He goes back to his work, feeling you with a loving insistence. 

You worried for a moment that you said the wrong thing. Not true. You’ve said magic words. Bright words. The right ones. The ones he’s never heard. You hug his neck tight, feel his warm skin against yours.

There’s a push. He sinks a finger inside you. His head tilts up, he watches your face with clear fascination. The way your eyes close. The way your pulse flutters. Toes curl. Fingers take. You wrap your legs tighter around him. With one, curved arm he holds you close. 

You breathe slowly. He moves in and out of you, feeling hot flesh. You’re wetter than water, he remembers every sigh of his made-up name.

You can’t have his face. You don’t want it. But you can have his name.

“Din,” he says over Lor. You open your eyes. 

“Din?” you reply, “that’s not—”

“It was,” he confirms.

“Do you want to hear it?” you ask, “is it right?” 

“Yeah,” he says, “from you, it’s right.”

The old name, still a little fresh sounds odd in his ear. Most people wear their names out. Like coats with patches on the elbows. They tire of them. But from you, that ghost sounds near-living. 

“Din,” you exhale against his cheek. He rolls his thumb over your clit. He nudges you with his helmet. 

“More?” he asks. You nod.

“Yes, Din, please,” it’s quickly said. And oh, fuck, he could become used to it. He adjusts the angle, letting another finger fill you slowly. 

He curls his middle and index finger, prodding slowly. He’s in search of something. He knows the way. You arch your back. He smiles under the mask. Found it.

You keep his name in the confines of a whisper. The people downstairs don’t need to know it. The man who hurt you certainly doesn’t. Don’t bring pain to bed. But don’t bring love, either.

One major hurdle’s taken place in the space between making love. You try to swallow the way you feel for him, to push it down. Even as he bumps his forehead against yours. He’s affectionate. He’s learned how to be. Too much has happened in an hour. You’ve said things. So has he.

He doesn’t need to know you love him. Though your sure he doesn’t know at all. And you want to come. You rock your hips against his hand. Begging. Wordlessly begging for more. Now. Din. Please.

But every time you say his name it sounds different in your ear. 

“Din,” you whisper. You don’t say I love you. I will love you. Me. I will. Me. It’s okay. I’ll do it.


End file.
